


Merlin After Le Morte d’Arthur

by OBoogers



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 16:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17247188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OBoogers/pseuds/OBoogers
Summary: With Arthur's death, Merlin no longer has a purpose, an identity, or a home. How does he find himself again?





	Merlin After Le Morte d’Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy this re-imagining of Merlin's life after Arthur's death.

**Merlin After Le Morte d’Arthur**

**Part 1: Surviving Camlann**

 

The small boat that carried away Arthur’s mortal remains did not gradually disappear into the distance, or fade into mist, or slip beneath the waters of the Lake of Avalon. It simply vanished, leaving the lake suddenly empty and smooth as if nothing had disturbed its surface at all. Even the thin water edging the shore was still as ice. Merlin stood there, slump-shouldered beneath his burden of guilt and loss, gazing at the spot where the boat had disappeared.

_I’ve failed him and he is gone. Who am I now, if not Arthur Pendragon’s servant, protector, and friend?_

Merlin imagined kneeling before Guinevere to confess his magic and his failure—how could he even choke out the words?—and watching her bright, hopeful face crumple with grief. He pictured dear, dear Gaius, wordlessly squinting his disappointment and concern. He saw himself standing at the center of a silent circle of Arthur’s red-robed knights, the judgment in their hard eyes as piercing as arrows. 

_They always knew me to be an idiot and a coward. Arthur himself told them so, many times. And now as far as they’re concerned, I’ve proven him right._  

_To Sir Leon and the others I will always be the stupid servant boy who ran off flower-picking instead of attending his master at the Battle of Camlann. To them, even Gwaine, I’ll be the deserter who disappeared until the fighting was over and it was safe to go home._

_I never really was one of them, just the camp cook and carrier. The king’s pet. They’ll all despise me now._

And even if the court accepted him back, Camelot’s great halls, absent Arthur’s voice and presence, would constantly remind Merlin of who he once had been but was no more. Those accusing walls would not let him forget, not even in his sleep.

_I can never go back to Camelot._

Perhaps, then, to Ealdor, the home of his mother? Guin had taken refuge there when Arthur banished her from Camelot. But no, Merlin’s presence would shame Hunith, once the rumors of his cowardice reached the village. Her friends and neighbors would shun her because of him. Best to disappear and let Ealdor forget him. Let his mother believe him already dead.

_Balinor’s cave, in Lot’s realm. No one will look for me there._

His exhausted mind could think no farther ahead. He’d not eaten in days. The fierce gnawing in his belly and the trembling of his knees prodded Merlin to turn and make his way toward a bed of rushes at the lake’s margin. He pulled a root from the sucking muck, wiped it against his trousers, and bit into its gritty flesh. He didn’t care that it was still coated with mud. The punishment suited him.

_I should have died at your side, Arthur. I always swore that I would._

Swallowing the last mouthful of grimy root, Merlin returned to the spot where he had sent away the king’s funeral boat. He stood again at water’s edge, facing the obelisk atop the Isle of Avalon.

“I will wait for your return, Arthur. I will be here. I promise.”

He arose, turned, and strode into the forest. He did not look back. 

Six days later, at dusk, Merlin cautiously entered the heavy darkness of Balinor’s abandoned cave.

“Forbearnan.”

A tiny flame flickered in the cupped palm of his hand, casting feeble light as Merlin turned to examine the chamber. Two cracked, desiccated candles stood on a ledge, next to a carving knife and other small tools. A dusty pallet of deerskins nestled in a slight cove in the wall. Near the cave’s mouth, the old fire ring was filled with white ash that last knew heat some 12 years earlier. Merlin’s mind replayed that morning when he and Arthur had stormed away in disgust, having initially failed to persuade the dragon lord to come to the aid of Camelot.

“Balinor?”

The darkness somehow absorbed his voice like a curtain of black velvet.

“Father?”

Nothing, not even an echo. Merlin had hoped that Balinor might make his presence known as he had in the crystal cave just days earlier—was it really just days?—but there was no whisper of him, or of any energy, in this place. It was the greatest emptiness that Merlin had ever encountered, aside from the cold kiss of the Doracha. He found the atmosphere eerie but not unpleasant: like a tomb or a womb, the cave offered no reproach and no expectations.

_Is this what death is like?_

Merlin’s eyes glowed amber, causing a fire to spring to life in the hearth. He extinguished the flame in his palm, patted the dust from his father’s deerskin pallet, and lay down. Weak from hunger, exhaustion, and grief, Merlin quickly surrendered to the blanketing silence and fell into a deep sleep. 

He opened his eyes just before first light, when the night was darkest. The last words of the Great Dragon Kilgharrah, meant to be comforting, prowled his brain: _All that you have dreamt of building has come to pass_. Merlin pushed himself up and leaned against the cold wall of the cave. He stared at the red embers of the hearth.

_All that you have dreamt of building…All that you have dreamt of building…_

Anger welled inside him. 

“That’s a lie!” he shouted. “The Albion I dreamt of building doesn’t exist! There’s still no place in Camelot for people like me! There’s still no acceptance of magic here!”

Arthur indeed had put an end to the persecution of the Druids, but those born with magic dared not to openly use their gifts. Merlin himself had been afraid to reveal his powers to Arthur until the king lay dying, unable to imprison or execute him.

“Nothing’s changed for us. Then what was the point of these so-called prophecies? Why did this have to be?” he challenged the blackness. “What gods ordained Arthur’s destiny, or mine? Who decreed that Morgana should turn against her brother and die at my hand?

“We paid with our lives for this promised Albion. Where is it, then?” Merlin cried in the voice of the dragonlord, “Answer me, you gods! I played my part! Answer!”

None came. Nothing stirred. No one heard. Weeping in frustration, Merlin lay down and curled on his side, facing the cave wall.

“It was for nothing,” he whispered. “It was all for nothing.”

His eyes closed, his back to the hearth, Merlin did not see the green flame flare high and drop once more to glowing embers.

 

**Part 2: Beneficence**

 

Shivering in his thin tunic, Merlin stood from the sleeping pallet and stumbled barefoot to the fire ring.  His worn and much-mended trousers, spread beside the hearth, were still damp from yesterday’s washing. He drew them on anyway, hitching them over his bony hips and securing them with a strip of old deerskin. He examined his boots but set them aside, saving their worn soles for winter walking.  Raking his fingers through shaggy, shoulder-length hair and a rough beard hat scarcely hid the hollowness of his cheeks, Merlin completed his preparations for the day.

“Now, how shall we break our fast this morning?” he wondered aloud. During his months of self-exile in Balinor’s cave, Merlin had developed a habit of talking to himself to help relieve his loneliness.  “A warm meat pie nicked from the kitchen? A bit of sausage pinched from Arthur’s plate? A nice bowl of rat soup?”

He rummaged through his haversack. “I don’t know, it all sounds too rich for my blood,” he answered himself, pulling a wild parsnip and a handful of soggy watercress from the depths of the bag. “Ah, here we go. A meal fit for a king, and I should know.” 

Merlin squatted and lipped the watercress from his hand as he leaned his trembling, half-starved frame over the meager heat of last night’s ashes. His eyes turned golden, and he added a bit of fuel to the new flame.

_How will I survive the winter? My stores are not nearly enough. How did my father live in this place? What would Gaius do?_  

With this he had pulled a thread that unraveled the loosely woven fabric of his thoughts: Had Gaius managed to evade the Saxons and deliver Arthur’s royal seal to Guinevere? Does he live and hope for Merlin’s return? What of Guin and Gwaine and wise, old Kilgharrah? Would he ever see any of them again? 

A rogue wave of grief crashed upon Merlin, pinning him, shuddering, beneath its tremendous weight for several minutes before finally receding. He wiped tears from his face with a sleeve. These episodes seemed to be striking with less frequency than they had during the first weeks following Arthur’s death, but they still caught him fiercely by surprise. His breath continued to catch in his chest as he struggled to compose himself. 

_Emrys._

Merlin’s head jerked up. He looked out the mouth of the cave, scanning the forest at edge of the clearing, searching for the source of the voice in his head.

_Who calls me?_ Merlin asked with his mind.

_Emrys. Come._

Half-crouched and ready to react to any sign of threat, he stepped beyond the protection of the rock walls. A cold, wet autumn wind slapped the young man’s thin face and cut through his damp clothing.

_Who calls? Where are you?_

He could feel a gaze upon him but could not locate its source. Something seemed amiss with the boulders at the edge of the clearing. Cautiously drawing closer, Merlin finally relaxed and stood erect to examine the objects arranged along the tops of the rocks. Here lay a fine, fat duck, freshly dressed and ready for the spit; beside it, a dark woolen cloak, a pair of butter-soft lambskin boots with the fleece turned inside, and a length of grey, woolen homespun, enough to cut himself a new tunic or trousers. Lifting the folds of the cloth he found a round loaf of crusty, brown bread. 

Merlin’s blue eyes welled with fresh tears. He tried to smile but could only press his lips together hard, overwhelmed with emotion.

_Who may I thank?_ he asked the forest.

_Here._

In the deeper shadows several yards among the trees stood a cloaked figure. The man drew back his hood, revealing a triple spiral inked onto his neck. A Druid.

_We only recently became aware of your presence at this place where the old dragonlord once dwelt, my lord. We will continue to aid you as we are able._

_I owe you my deepest gratitude and quite possibly my life_ , Merlin told him silently.  _But why should you do this for me, sir? I’m not of your people._

_We serve you, Lord Emrys, for the same reason you served your Arthur Pendragon. We serve you because of who you are._

The Druid bowed and disappeared into the dripping forest. Although he no longer could see the man, Merlin bowed in return.

_I am humbled._

He hurriedly pushed his benumbed, bare toes deep into the fleecy warmth of his new boots, drew the heavy cloak over his shaking shoulders, and scooped up the rest his bounty to carry into the shelter of the cave. Within minutes, the roasting duck would be dripping fat from the spit.

 

**Part 3:  Wanted**

 

Merlin slowly stretched his hand over the trout suspended in a quiet pool near the stream bank.

“Leax sendan,” he intoned, amber-eyed.

The fish flew from the water as if scooped by a cat’s paw and landed, flopping, in the leaf litter at his feet. Merlin laughed aloud and squatted to thread a rawhide thong through the trout’s gill and out of its gasping mouth, adding it to his stringer of thrashing catches.

“You, my friends, are going to taste delicious with toasted hazelnuts and spring greens!”

Suddenly Merlin caught a flash of red from the corner of his eye and heard horses splashing through the ford a few yards upstream. A Camelot patrol! The noise of rushing water had covered the sound of their approach. He yanked the hood of his dark robe over his head and face and crouched low, hoping the horsemen would pass him by unseen. 

_Why would Camelot knights be trespassing in Essetir?_ Merlin wondered. _They must have an important mission to be taking such a risk._

One of the passing knights paused midstream and looked directly at him. Merlin sprang to his feet and dashed toward the underbrush.

“Halt, upon pain of death!” commanded Sir Leon. 

Merlin froze, his back to the knights. Dipping his chin, he closed his eyes and transformed into white-bearded, old Dragoon.

“Face me!”

Merlin turned, head tipped back, and peered down his nose at the five knights before him. He curled his lips into the old man’s characteristic cranky sneer.

“You!” exclaimed Sir Percival.

“You were expecting someone else?” Merlin rasped.

“As a matter of fact, I thought I saw…” started Leon. “Never mind.” The knights heeled their horses, forming a loose circle around the old man but keeping well back from him. “Dragoon, isn’t it? Don’t make any sudden move, sorcerer. We have not forgotten our last encounter with you.” 

“Why are you skulking around in the bushes?” demanded Percival. “What are you up to?”

“What does it look like I’m up to?” snapped old Merlin, raising his stringer of trout. “Sharp as a mallet, you are!” 

The horsemen reined in closer. Merlin squinted at them. He did not recognize three of the young men of Leon’s command.

“Two of you have welcomed me into your presence before: you,” he said, nodding toward Leon, “and that great oaf there who likes to press his sword into people’s backs. Where’s the other fellow, the dark, testy one?” 

“You refer, old man, to Sir Gwaine,” growled Percival. Dragoon clearly got under his skin. “Sir Gwaine died honorably in pursuit of Morgana after the Battle of Camlann.” 

“Oh.” The answer felt like a punch to Merlin’s belly, but he quickly recovered himself. “And is the Lady Morgana defeated, then? Are we safe from her evil machinations at last?”

“I thought you knew _all_ , magic man,” Percy egged him.

“I know how to teach you some manners,” Merlin threatened, raising his hand toward Percival. “They say the bigger you are, the harder you fall!” 

The five knights drew their swords.

“Mind yourself, Dragoon,” warned Leon. “We have no quarrel with you. We will answer your questions and then you will answer ours.”

Merlin lowered his hand and all but Percival sheathed their weapons. The big man shot a quick frown at Leon before addressing the old warlock.

“The witch is dead, slain by King Arthur,” he said. “I recovered her body, drove a wooden stake through her black heart, and sank her carcass in the bog.”

Merlin thoughtfully stroked his white beard as his mind raced with this news. Percival, no doubt searching for the king, had found Morgana at the place where he and Arthur last had rested. Seeing the fatal wound, the knight would naturally assume that Arthur had finished her with his sword. Further efforts to track Arthur would have proven fruitless, as his flight with Kilgharrah left no trace on the ground.

“Then the Lady Morgana is defeated and King Arthur retains his throne,” Merlin concluded. “Good.”

“The king is dead,” replied Leon flatly. “We serve Queen Guinevere, King Arthur’s chosen successor. She holds the royal seal.”

Merlin brightened: Gaius had evaded the Saxons and delivered Arthur’s seal to Guin as promised. The good old man survived! And kind, sensible Guinevere now sat upon the Pendragon throne. Uther would have an utter conniption. Merlin smiled in satisfaction.

“And why are Queen Guinevere’s knights trespassing in Essetir, harassing King Lot’s subjects?” he demanded. 

“Enough. Now you will answer our questions,” Leon told him abruptly. “We seek the king’s servant, Merlin. He disappeared before the battle and has not returned to Camelot. He likes to prowl the woods, as do you, Dragoon. Have you seen him or heard anything of him?” 

“Merlin. Oh, the boney young fellow?” asked old Merlin. “Black hair, fetching smile? I rather like him. So hardworking. So brave and loyal. Handsome lad, too.”

“So you know where he is?” Leon and Percival both leaned forward in their saddles, anticipation in their eyes.

“No.”

Leon snorted in irritation. Percival looked as if he wanted to run his sword through Dragoon on the spot.

“Why so much effort to find a mere servant?” asked Merlin. “What has he done, hurt a knight’s feelings?”

“We said we’re asking the questions now!” snapped Percival.

“We are under royal order to find and bring him before the queen,” Leon replied, annoyance gravelling his voice. “She offers a reward for his return. A person of his description has been reported in this area. If you encounter Merlin you must carry word to Camelot immediately. It is of utmost urgency.”

“Oh, certainly, Sir Knight! I’ll hop right up on my trusty steed and gallop off to Camelot with all haste!” the old man sneered. “Beanheads.”

Percy leaned in, pressing the tip of his sword into Merlin’s chest. “I don’t care if you gallop, fly, or crawl,” he growled through clenched teeth. “If you see Merlin, report to Camelot. Report. Immediately! Understand?”

“Phfft!” hissed Merlin, shaking his stringer of flopping fish at Percival. Percy sheathed his sword and glared at the old man.

“We’re wasting time here. On!” Leon commanded, spurring his mount. The patrol clattered away into the forest.

Merlin’s eyes glowed and a shower of hazelnuts pelted the departing horsemen. Percival reined up sharply and looked back over his shoulder with suspicion. The old warlock had already disappeared.

Safely back at the cave, Merlin closed his eyes and dipped his chin once more, becoming his younger self. His healing at the crystal cave before the Battle of Camlann had tremendously strengthened his magical powers. He no longer required the aid of a tincture for the transformation.

He sat down near the hearth and stirred the white ashes into flame. Warming his hands, he pondered the news that Leon and Percival had just imparted 

Gwaine was dead. Gaius lived. Guinevere reigned. And he, Merlin, was a wanted man.

Wanted badly enough to risk war between Camelot and Essetir.

**Part 4: The Wanderer**

 

The peasant woman’s deep, infected cut had cleared up and mended within two days. It didn’t even leave a scar, thanks to a medicinal salve applied by the itinerant physician who now stood examining her hand.

“There you go, then. All healed up,” he told her in the local Germanic dialect, gently releasing her hand. The physician was a tall, lean man around 30 years of age, with short black hair and a trimmed beard of the old Roman style. Although his manner somehow betrayed him as a foreigner to this realm, his speech carried no trace of an accent. He smiled at the young woman. Her soft voice and dark hair, braided loosely behind her back, reminded him of a girl he had loved and lost years ago. 

“I have no coin to pay you, sir,” she replied, looking boldly into his blue eyes.

The healer shrugged. “Then pay me with a loaf of bread, or some oatcakes, or if you have none to spare, with a song,” he suggested. 

Instead, she wordlessly took his hand and led him to a woolen blanket spread in the tall grass behind the goat shed. The lonely man’s yearning for human touch overwhelmed him and he accepted what she offered there.

Hours after leaving the woman’s village, the healer walked with quickening strides along a footpath through dense firs. His earlier happiness was fading with the daylight. He hated being caught after dark in these vast, continental forests. Magic was strong here, and it wasn’t of a friendly or familiar kind.

“At last, and just in time” the man breathed in relief as he emerged from the trees into a wide meadow. A few bright stars already blinked in the nautical twilight.

Sheep and cattle had grazed down all of the grass in this meadow except for a tall, untouched patch a short distance ahead. He could see even in the gloaming that no livestock or game trails led to that place; the animals clearly avoided it. The healer approached and looked into the curiously shimmering pool at the center of the grass. From his wineskin he poured an offering of honeyed mead into the water, then stepped back and bent his body in a slight bow.

“I, Merlin Ambrosius, ask permission to pass the night in the safety of this sacred place.”

A ripple skittered toward him across the otherwise still pool, and he took that as assent. Backing a few yards from the spring, he unrolled his blanket onto the ground and, with a look from golden eyes, ignited some sticks he had collected during his day’s hike. Merlin seated himself within the small circle of firelight and pulled a wolfskin, payment from a tribal chief for the healing of his small son, around his shoulders for warmth. He made his supper of cold sausage and cheese from his haversack.

From the now dark sky above, a waning gibbous moon cast watery light onto his camp. Merlin shivered under his wolfskin, but not just from the chill evening air. Hostile or perhaps just curious stares from unseen beings in the forest behind him prodded his back like fingers.

“Go away!” he yelled over his shoulder, exasperated. But whatever was back there did not retreat. He tried again.

“Flíeh on nu moras!”

This time some thing, or things, crashed away through the underbrush. His uneasiness relieved at last, melancholy thoughts swiftly filled the vacancy. 

_I miss Gaius. I miss them all._

Since fleeing across the channel to Neustria seven years earlier, Merlin had lived as a perpetual stranger with a lie for a name. Calling himself Ambrosius, he wandered from village to village, treating people’s wounds and assorted complaints in exchange for food and shelter. Sometimes a good woman, like the one that morning, would ask him to stay, but he would not commit to settled life here when his heart, and Arthur, remained in Albion.

So Merlin kept wandering and learning. He absorbed new languages, studied local healing traditions and medicinal plants, and on rare occasions met a fellow magus who sensed his powers and shared magical lore with him. This work occupied and satisfied the maturing warlock, sharpened his skills, and kept his mind off other things. But of late, those other things increasingly intruded into his thoughts.

_I wonder if there is still a price on my head. I wonder if Guinevere would believe me if I tried to explain it all—or if she would blame me for Arthur’s death and have me imprisoned or executed._

He might have found that out seven years ago but for a Druid’s thought-warning that alerted him to the approach of Camelot knights. He was able to slip away just minutes before the patrol reached the cave.  

Sighing, Merlin lay back on his blanket and gazed at the night sky.

_I hope my poor mother and Gaius have put my memory behind them and gone on with their lives. I hope they are happy and safe._

He closed his eyes. As his mind spiraled toward sleep, a faint, distant voice called to him.

_Merlin, come home._  

The voice was Balinor’s. 

 

**Part 5: Homecoming**

_Small chance that anyone in Camelot would recognize me now_ , Merlin thought as he entered the crowded market square, bearing his few belongings on his back. _Coming here should be safe enough._ In Arthur’s time he had been of little interest to the local people—just the odd, gangly boy who ran errands for the court physician. Now he was a grown man with threads of silver in his black hair and beard. Not even Leon or Percival or Guinevere herself would know him by sight. Besides, he wouldn’t be here long. He wanted only to spend a few hours with Gaius.

Merlin paused at a stand to purchase an apple, a favorite he’d not had opportunity to enjoy for many years. As he placed his coin in the merchant’s palm and took a bite of the sweet fruit, a swarm of young children ran past, waving wooden swords. “Stand and fight, Cenrid!” yelled one small warrior, careening into the stand. Fruit and vegetables went flying.

“Gestillan!” ordered the merchant, his eyes turning amber. The produce stopped and hung there, levitating. “Merlin’s beard,” the man muttered as he plucked them from midair and rearranged them on the stand.

Merlin nearly choked on his apple. “What did you say?” he finally managed. The man looked at him, shrugged, and turned back to his work. 

“But—you use magic in public?” 

The merchant didn’t look up but merely nodded his head toward a woman at the market stand opposite his own. She was arranging loaves on a high shelf. With her eyes.

The little band now charged through in the opposite direction. “On me!” hollered the leader, a small, curly-haired girl with her wooden sword raised and red cape flying as she dashed by. “Come on, Merlin!” Merlin, his eyes wide in astonishment, trailed after the herd as they galloped into the plaza and circled a pedestal topped by a pair of marble statues. One of the smallest youngsters, also wearing a red cape but gripping a long stick instead of a sword, stopped and imperiously shook the stick at the others.

“Finestra! Sinestre! Presto!” he yelled. Several boys and girls in black capes clutched their hearts and dropped dramatically to the ground, where they lay twitching and moaning. “For the love of Camelot!” cheered the little red knights, raising their wooden swords. The black-capes sprang up from the cobblestones and they all ran off together.

_What in the name of Arthur did I just witness?_

At that precise moment Merlin recognized the stylized features of the two statues on the pedestal. One stood with sword in hand, barrel-chested, square-jawed, armor-clad, nobly crowned and handsome: Arthur. The figure to his right was tall and lanky, with short hair and slender, angular face, wearing a Druid’s robes and holding a staff: Merlin!

_Handsome, as well_ , he thought with a puzzled grin. _But what is going on here?_

He finished his apple, core and all, then walked past the guards and through the arched gateway to the castle courtyard. He climbed the steps, passed another pair of sentries, and entered the corridor to Gaius’s familiar door. Merlin paused to steel himself, not knowing what to expect. He knocked.

Momentarily the door opened, but not to Gaius. A fair-skinned, dark-eyed woman, little over four feet tall and slightly younger than himself, stood before him.

“Pardon me, madam, but is the court physician in?” Merlin asked.

“I am the court physician,” the woman answered, looking him over with a discerning eye. “Are you in need of treatment?” 

“Uh, no,” he stammered, his heart sinking. “I was, I was looking up an old friend from long ago. I see he no longer lives here. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” He turned to go. 

“Wait.” The woman leaned out of the doorway and looked in both directions, then opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”

Merlin hesitated, but the tiny woman’s beauty and manner beguiled him. He stepped inside the familiar room and looked around. Little had changed. His eyes welled with tears, despite himself. 

The woman pulled out a chair at Gaius’s table and gestured to him to be seated. “I was just sitting down to a meal, still warm from the royal kitchen.” She placed a plate of pork before him before taking the opposite chair.

“I’m sorry, love, but Gaius passed two years ago,” she said, offering him a goblet of dark wine. “I am Vivien. Queen Annis sent me to Camelot some years past to assist Gaius with Queen Guinevere’s delivery. Afterward, Guinevere asked me to stay to help Gaius in his duties and care for him as he grew infirm. I learned much from the old soul and loved him like my father. As I know you did, Lord Merlin.” 

_This day is full of surprises!_

“That—that is a lot of information to take in at once,” he said, poking a fork at his plate. “Thank you for caring for Gaius. Obviously he spoke of me to you. But please, I’m no nobleman. There’s no call to address me in that way.”

“Oh, there is, my lord,” she answered, smiling. “You see, you are highly revered in these parts—throughout Albion, in fact. Gaius told Queen Guinevere all you had done for Arthur, how it was Merlin who repelled the dragon and Merlin who destroyed Morgana’s army at Camlann, and how you had confessed your magic to Arthur at the end and given your all to save the king. Since the two of you never returned, it was presumed that the king died of his wounds. Your whereabouts have remained a mystery.

“But the queen has made your story and Arthur’s known to the people of Camelot. She has had her knights scouring the five united kingdoms for you for years. She wishes to honor you!”

“She what?” Merlin exclaimed. “I thought Guinevere meant to arrest me!”

“Because of your kindness, courage, and faithful service to Arthur, my lord,” Vivien continued, “Queen Guinevere has revoked the old laws against magic and sorcery. People of magic are free to be themselves without fear of punishment. We are all valued subjects of Camelot now.”

Merlin sat silent for a moment. _Albion is…all I dreamt of building._ He buried his face in his hands and wept.

Vivien rose to stand behind him and stroked his hair. “Please forgive my familiarity,” she said gently. “I feel as if I’ve known you for a lifetime, Merlin, my kin through Gaius.” 

After several minutes the warlock raised his head and spoke again.

“You said, Vivien, that Annis sent you to help deliver a child of Guinevere. She remarried, then.” The thought of another man on Arthur’s throne pained him. “What king rules Camelot now?”

“Queen Guinevere never remarried, but rules alone as Queen Regent.”

The implication of her words stunned Merlin.

“Guinevere bore Arthur a child!”

“She did, my lord, about nine years past. The child is named Artios, after the king.”

_I’ve been such a fool, running away and hiding from my friends._ _I’ve missed so much._

“I’m sorry, Vivien,” Merlin said, wiping away more tears. “I’m afraid my emotions have always resided just beneath my eyelids.”

“Will you go to Guinevere, Lord Merlin?” she asked. “It would mean much to her, and to the people of Camelot, to know you have safely returned. And she yearns to hear from you of the king’s final hours.”

Merlin pondered. _How will Guinevere receive the dragon’s prophecy of Arthur’s return at some future time of crisis, likely long after her own death? Even if I don’t share Kilgharrah’s words, Guin will ask where Arthur’s body lies and will want to bring him home for a proper funeral pyre. How could I tell her that’s not possible?_  

“No,” he answered at last. “My appearance would dredge up old grief, and knowing of Arthur’s last hours would bring our lady no comfort. Guinevere’s made her peace with the king’s death and has found her way forward. As for the people of Camelot, I’m sure they would find my reality less exciting than my legend.”

“I understand,” said Vivien. “But you must be tired from your travels, Lord Merlin. Please, stay here in Gaius’s home as long as you wish. He kept your room as you left it, in case of your return. I will respect your privacy, and none in Camelot could recognize your face after these many years.” 

That evening, Merlin climbed the steps to the room that once had been his own. He closed the door and sat down on his old bed, looking around. The space felt haunted by memories.

Slowly he slid from the bed to his knees. With his fingers he pried up a loose board to reveal Gaius’s precious book of magic, which Merlin had concealed under the floor years before. He lifted the volume from its hiding place and gently turned its cover, and it fell open to a parchment that had been slipped between its pages. Merlin drew out the document, smoothed it with his hand, and read the looping cursive: 

 

My dearest boy—for you will always be my boy even though you reach or exceed my own advanced age,

If you are reading this letter, you have returned to Camelot. I dearly hope that you find Albion to be all you imagined it one day would be. It is the culmination of everything that you and Arthur accomplished together, the fulfillment of prophecy and of your mutual destiny.

But I firmly believe that more greatness lies ahead for you, Merlin. Your own destiny pushes onward like a path through distant mountains. Understand that your years of loneliness and wandering since Arthur’s death were not wasted but are a part of that continuing destiny. What you experienced and learned during that time will figure, somehow, in your future. Never regret those years.

Know that we who loved you will always be part of you, Merlin, for our best qualities are woven into the fabric of your character. You have your mother and father’s strength and resilience. You share Arthur’s great courage and loyalty and gentle Guinevere’s compassion. You bear the wisdom of the dragon Kilgharrah, the honor of Sir Lancelot, and Gwaine’s fierce sense of justice and fair play. You even possess a bit of our poor Morgana’s anguish, which makes you sensitive to the pain of others. No doubt you have some part of old Gaius in you, as well. I hope it is my thirst for knowledge and not my cooking ability.

You shaped all of our lives, too, Merlin, and made each of us a better person. Our lives were infinitely richer because you were part of them. Remember always that you have been truly, deeply loved.

Gaius

 

Merlin rolled the parchment and tucked it carefully into his haversack. Returning the book to its hiding place, he gently pushed the floorboard back into place.

 

**Part 6: Epilogue**

 

Merlin remained with Vivien for almost a year. He found her to be a skilled physician with an aptitude for herbal healing, and he taught her all he knew of the medicinal plants of the forests, meadows, and marshes. He also discovered that she possessed a bit of native magic. With Merlin as her teacher, Vivien learned some basic spells and incantations to help her in her work. The two of them grew close.

Vivien kept her promise to protect his identity, and despite his legendary fame, Merlin never was recognized by the people of the town. He rarely left Gaius’s quarters. Through the room's windows he occasionally caught a glimpse of the queen as she strolled in the palace gardens, but Guinevere and her knights remained unaware of his presence in Camelot.

But as the months passed, Merlin grew weary and his energy diminished. He experienced lengthening periods of disassociation or trance, staring vacantly at a wall or object before coming back to himself, feeling vaguely that he had been in Arthur's presence. Sometimes at night as he fell into sleep he would hear his father’s voice still calling him home. Gradually Merlin realized what he must do. One morning he gathered his belongings, kissed Vivien a last goodbye, and departed Camelot alone.

Over the following weeks he walked through the Darkling Forest along trails he once had ridden with Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. He made his way around the White Mountains, although the path over them would have been many miles shorter, but thereby avoiding the Plain of Camlann. At last he entered the Valley of the Fallen Kings and stood before the crystal cave. Merlin took a last long look at the blue sky above and breathed deeply of the fresh, clear air, and then he walked to the center of the cavern. His eyes turned amber and the earth trembled. Rocks fell, sealing him inside.

After the dust settled, Merlin approached and leaned over one of the glowing scrying crystals.

_Show me Arthur._  

The crystal revealed Arthur’s face, at peace and youthful in repose, through a swirling mist. The scene darkened to blackness but then shifted, bringing Merlin an image of Guinevere, her lovely thick hair now streaked with silver, standing at an open window of the palace. He watched her smile down toward the courtyard with love and pride in her eyes.

The crystal next showed him children playing beneath the window. It focused on the long, brown curls of a small girl with a red cape thrown back from her shoulders. The girl turned and looked up, and Merlin felt with a shock that she saw him, too. Her large, blue eyes and the familiar way she pursed her lips revealed her without doubt to be the child of Arthur Pendragon. With a fierce look, Princess Artios raised her wooden sword and shouted words Merlin could not hear. The image faded.

Now the flickering crystal brought him one last scene. Here, Arthur stood blinking in bright sunlight, the dragon’s sword in the scabbard at his side. Merlin, appearing young as he had been in Arthur’s day but dressed in the unfamiliar clothing of a future era, grasped Arthur’s shoulders in a welcoming embrace. Then the crystal went dark.

Merlin smiled. He pulled his traveling cloak around his body, lay down in the soft dust of the crystal cave, and closed his eyes. As he drifted toward a long, deep sleep, one last thought crossed his mind.

_I will wait for your return, Arthur. I will be here. I promise._

 

 

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**Author's Note:**

> The Old English spells used in this piece are from https://merlin.fandom.com/wiki/Merlin_Wiki, a wonderful and comprehensive resource for Merlin fans.


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